


gaildahlas

by diovis (dafen)



Series: omnivore [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Endearments, F/M, Female Warrior Lavellan - Freeform, Female warrior inquisitor - Freeform, POV Solas, Pre-Relationship, and also during, he's the hardest character to hit on in lavellan's opinion, smooth lavellan, this was a wild ride from start to finish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-01
Updated: 2016-08-01
Packaged: 2018-07-28 13:56:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7643221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dafen/pseuds/diovis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gaildahlas: The elvhen word for embrium. Similar to the english endearment ‘sweetie,’ or ‘baby.’ (fenxshiral)</p><p>In which Solas tries to figure out why the Inquisitor keeps giving him flowers. And calling him by their Elvhen name.<br/>Lavellan just enjoys how flustered he is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	gaildahlas

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by fenxshiral's translation for the Elvhen term for embrium. It somehow became a 6000+ word chronicle of how Lavellan slowly wins an unknowing Solas over, from the start of the game to pre-Halamshiral and Adamant. And of course, calls him the equivalent of "babe" the whole time. (askldfjkadls//laughing at my own jokes)

The shift from friends to _more_ is so smooth that he doesn't realize it at first.

Lavellan comes to him for memories from the Fade and stories of spirits, jogging up to his cabin in Haven, slightly out of breath, on her way to see the healer. She asks him about magic, about demons, and doesn't even seem to realize that unlike him, she hasn't yet taken the time to wipe blood splatters off her armor.

He can't figure her out. She calls him _hahren_ , in the beginning, and he automatically replies with da’len—but Lavellan, bronze skin and tousled curls and steady, muscled stature, is absolutely nothing like a child.

She is attentive to his droning, serious in their discussions, and thoughtful in her banter—humor is how she breaks down all her companions’ walls, wry and underhanded and sometimes more forward.

He thinks, in the beginning, that she wears a separate mask for each of them. But she wiggles her eyebrows at him as well, one day, and he can't do anything but be amused when their conversation dissolves into light hearted flirting—he is caught off guard—and a confession, on his part, that leaves the sides of his mouth twitching.

“You… Enjoy my muscles?” She asks him, eyebrows raised and voice low enough to tell him that she's testing him.

“I meant that presumably, you enjoy having them.” His voice is mild.

“Oh.” The disappointment in her voice has him opening his mouth before he can think things through.

“But since you asked, yes, I do.”

She brightens up so vividly that he can't help the wry amusement that crawls up his chest. He doesn't think much of it, yet—Lavellan makes Josephine swoon, causes Cullen to choke, his red flush slowly grinding away at his soldiers’ respect for him, and has even tried her hand at wooing Vivienne. Cassandra had been the only one she’d seemed to pursue seriously, until it became evident that the Seeker couldn’t exactly return her attentions.

Lavellan flirts with a crooked smile and dark brown eyes that glint gold in the sun. With strangers, she is neither cold nor aloof—she is steady and unflinching, a figure clad in armor and armed with a shield that navigates politics with a mild demeanor and endearing wit.

Yet in all endeavors—she is thoughtful and unyielding. She has a cleverness that is not obvious, but is obviously implied, and an infallible ability to _always_ reply evenly. It more than Josephine, Solas knows, could ever have wished for.

They spend a month gathering resources, and for Solas, it is a month spent almost always at her side. She takes her duty to the cause seriously, an edge of guilt to her countenance that he would likely have never seen had she not become a frequent visitor to his lodgings.

Above all, she is attentive.

She knows how to make Sera laugh, how to make Cullen blush, and how to draw a smile out of Cassandra. She has Varric's trust and—Solas can scarcely believe it—Vivienne’s regard. Bull _respects_ her, and Blackwall does not dare make lewd comments when she is within ten feet of him with her sword.

These are the days before the storm, in which Solas watches the woman with a god’s power sealed into her hand and thinks— _perhaps, not all is lost_.

They are friends, eventually, and Solas chokes less on loneliness as she slowly enters his world with others alongside her.

 _Suledin_ , a whisper in his mind that no longer plagues him _every_ night that he must face his memories and _nightmares_.

And then one day, he realizes that things have changed.

The wrappings for his feet are new, lined with fur and clasped with latches that are tighter than cloth could ever be. She hands the gear to him as she jogs past him—ever in a hurry—with new daggers in her hands for Sera.

He barely has time to thank her before she flashes him a grin, lopsided and endearing, before rushing on.

Solas looks at the bundle of fabric and leather left in his arms.

His eyebrows rise as it occurs to him, suddenly, that he was expecting this.

Not just the new gear but—he pauses, contemplative—her visits. Not only are they commonplace, but he _expects_ them. He is used to Lavellan's visits, her small gifts and furrowed brow, questions upon questions that tell him exactly how invested she is in expanding her knowledge.

They have not touched the shaky subject of her heritage since his first blunder, something which she faced with such mildness that he felt _foolish_. And touchy.

And yet, she comes to him, inquisitive, and admits that she does not want her decisions led by false notions and biases, consequences of her not being mageborn.

He shakes his head, then, and thinks that seeing her as a _friend_ is not a bad thing.

Lavellan, he finds out later, does not feel the same way.

~•~

They are traversing the Hinterlands and clearing the roads, charting the land and setting up camps. Lavellan strides through water and comes out caked with mud, a blood lotus held up by its stems and dripping water onto her metal boots.

“Bees,” she informs them, and Solas remembers the plant's usage just as Sera whoops in delight.

It is another quaint thing about Lavellan, he muses, even as they continue along the waterline. She jogs ahead, remaining in sight, and makes a point to harvest almost every herb they come across. Everything she finds useful, that is, and can have turned into a healing draught or weapon of mass destruction. The latter kind is based on a recipe of Sera's.

Which is why he blinks at her, confused, when she runs back to them with a handful of embrium and hands the bunch to him. Her eyes are glittering.

“Inquisitor,” he says, hesitating. “I—thank you?”

A beat of silence. Perhaps she thinks he could use them?

“I am not familiar with any potions that require embrium. Perhaps Adan would have a use for them?”

“Solas,” she says, amused, and Solas experiences, for the second time since Waking, a sense of discomfort that comes from _missing something_. “You know what these are called in Elvhen, I assume?”

“Gaildahlas, of course.” His answer is almost automatic, the name leaving his lips even as he glances down to look at the softly glowing petals of the flower. The red is deep and surrounded by orange, the entire plant given an almost ethereal quality. Even he had to admit—such a plant was never found in Arlathan, but would have been a beautiful addition.

“Lethallin,” Lavellan says, still surprised. “I… Huh.” She pauses. “This is an interesting development.”

Absently, he notes Sera's mumblings of “elfy elves” behind him.

“Have I missed something?” He asks, curious. For her to ask for the flower's name in Elvhen—did he miss something related to its meaning? As far as he knew, the flower was common all across Thedas. If she expected him to know something else about it, he was probably missing something related to Dalish interpretation of—something.

“It's nothing important,” she tells him, reaching over to brush his shoulder. The gesture sends something like sparks down his arm, even as she moves to tuck the flowers into his pack. “Do me a favor and keep these, please. I can explain it to you later.”

She turns to continue, then, and Solas is left to gaze after her with a furrowed brow. Why would she give him flowers?

Cassandra is stifling a smile when she walks by, and Sera mutters. Solas sighs, and the matter moves to the back of his mind—behind more pressing concerns.

~•~

He does not forget the issue, not entirely. The first stalks of embrium hang, dried and refreshing, in his cabin until Haven falls. He forgets about the flowers completely when Lavellan brings down a mountain upon herself, saves the villagers and the soldiers, and then trudges through the snow with bright eyes while mourning the dead.

She is— _extremely_ averse to death. Lavellan avoids murder and prefers to parlay with enemies, makes her kills quick and concentrates most on protecting her companions.

The muscles that he admires—one day when she loses her shield in battle, Solas watches her slam back the slash of greatsword with a gauntlet-clad hand and new vambraces, the metal on her arm denting even as she roars back at the bandit-warrior and jams the pommel of her sword between his eyes.

She is always covered in bruises.

Haven—and the lives lost there—deadens her eyes. When he approaches her, the weight of truth upon his tongue, she does not smile. He leads her, barely recovered from frostbite, to a torch where they will not be heard.

Solas tells her half a lie and gives her a fortress to atone.

~•~

She still—gives him flowers. And it is always, _always_ embrium.

In Skyhold, it occurs to him that she has begun flirting with him, _exclusively_. Cullen looks relieved, though he still reddens when she walks by, and Josephine merely sighs, fondly, at her half-hearted winks.

But as they sprint through fields of corpses and jog around Ferelden lakes, Lavellan somehow always manages to find him a bouquet of embrium. She doesn't expect him to keep all of them, giving him a smirk whenever she hands each one over and making him even _more_ confused. But by the end of each outing, something has occurred to take his mind off of the flowers.

For a while, the only reminder he gets is when she walks into his rotunda with a fresh vase of them and places it on his desk.

“Gaildahlas,” she says, looking at him so fondly that he feels as if he is on the precipice of flushing deeply. She's only saying the name of the plant but—something about her tone, and her usage of the word, nags at him. There is more to this.

“Gaildahlas,” he repeats, watching, mystified, as she stifles a smile before distracting him with requests for more stories of the Fade.

Solas can't deny her.

~•~

She kisses him, light and hesitant, consciously giving him time to pull away and reject her.

When she withdraws, he can't help himself—she looks up at him, steady dark eyes and razor sharp wit and short, ruffled curls like a _lion's_ mane and he is _undone_.

He moves, arms going to her waist and back as his lips find hers, insistent and _desperate_ because _he has been alone_ , so alone, for so long, and Lavellan is _so_ —his mind is in disarray, her lips are slightly chapped and moist, and her touch on _his_ waist is soothing.

He has to draw back.

He draws back, takes a single glimpse of her dilated pupils, dark and brown and _wry_ , and then—he's leaning back in. Of course.

The second time they separate, he manages to actually get a few words in before she realizes where they are.

“This isn’t real,” she says, eyes flickering up to the vortex of green in the sky and back to him, something dawning on her.

“ _That_ is a matter of debate,” he murmurs, eyes glinting in amusement. “Probably best discussed after you—”

_Wake up._

He's expecting her later, anxiously. when she bursts into his rotunda, slightly out of breath and hair in an even more rumpled state than usual.

Solas can't help it—He has to bite back a smirk.

This time, there are no flowers in her hands. But when she tells him that she will wait for his decision, he feels affection for her consideration bloom anew in his chest.

“Take your time, _gaildahlas_ ,” she says, and he narrows his eyes at the mischief in her tone. She leaves, hiding a grin by turning away from him.

Lavellan has given him a hint—it is a title, a name; something that the Dalish must use for things other than pretty plants.

He freezes.

Pretty plants. In a moment of consideration—his ears grow hot. She couldn't be calling him—Solas shakes his head, muttering to himself. There is no way.

They are very close, he admits. And Lavellan does not hide her fondness for him, teasing him and instigating banter and dropping by his room to spend as much of her free time as possible with _him_.

Still, it must be something else. He refuses to embrace vanity.

Solas sighs, and vows to pursue the matter until he finally gets an answer.

But he forgets the matter entirely, again, when his friend, his first light in a world of Tranquil— _screams_.

~•~

She dissuades him from killing them. Anger and despair run, wild and savage, through his chest. He is devastated, and he is enraged—and she does not let him take his vengeance.

For a while, as he sits alone and grieves, he is angry at _her_.

A whisper beats back at him, scolding, from the recesses of his mind, telling him that she did nothing to stop him but murmur his name.

She did nothing but make him—remember.

Lavellan, who has studied magic, nobility, history, and every secret known to Leliana, all in the hopes of avoiding bloodshed and finding an alternative to execution or murder when dealing with their enemies. Lavellan, who _first_ turned to him with respect in her eyes when he told Bull that he _detested_ violence, and the fact that every being they killed had a life that could not simply be judged in a single instance of combat.

Lavellan, who knows the name of every soldier and villager that fell at Haven and had letters delivered to each and every one of their families.

Lavellan, _who knows him well enough to remind him_ —he is not the kind of being to take away another’s life.

And Solas feels, for the first time since waking—since _Waking_ , a sense of deep and regretful shame.

His heart feels sick and he mourns, but he is also glad, then, that he is not a murderer.

~•~

When he walks up to the gates of Skyhold, she strides, almost breaking into a jog, to stand in front of him.

He looks at her, and her features are sharpened by worry while her eyes are burdened by guilt. Lavellan looks exhausted. Her back is stiff, there are faint dark smudges under her eyes, and he can see her wavering before him, an uncertainty in her posture that he has not seen since before their first conversation on spirits in the Fade.

Why is she—

Oh.

 _Oh_. Realization hits him and he exhales slowly.

He had snapped at her, before. When he was still full of anger and disbelief, and she had stopped him from taking life for another life.

Ir abelas _,_ falon _,_ he thinks, ruefully. She is not sure where she stands with him, anymore, and yet she worries for him enough to watch for his return and greet him with as much comfort as she can provide. Because despite all his blunders, Lavellan still speaks to him, quiet and understanding, uncaring of every eye on them as she proves how exactly much _regard_ she holds him in.

“I could hardly abandon you now,” he tells her, and he means it. She nods, finally meeting his gaze without faltering.

“The next time you have to mourn, you don’t need to be alone.” Her voice is uncharacteristically soft.

The feeling that wells up in his chest is so thick and melancholy and _bright_ that he almost chokes on it—it is _hope_.

He had _Woken_ , a year before, to a _nightmare_ , a lone wolf stumbling blearily, weak and uncertain, through shadows that did not know him and would _never_ know life the way he had. So alone. He had been so, _so_ alone.

And now—

He swallows, mind made up.

And now, Lavellan tells him that he is not.

~•~

It hasn’t changed her. It could not have. He is terrified. It could not have changed her. This is Lavellan, brown eyes and strong heart and _his_ heart, his _vhenan_ , and he hasn’t changed her.

 _Sathan_. He cannot lose her. The person before him is vivid and unflinchingly real, so kind that he regrets every drop of blood he has ever forced them to shed.

He closes his eyes when he reaches for her and draws her into a kiss, hands trembling. _Sathan. Sathan, sathan,_ sathan _._

 _Revas_.

She looks up at him, affection blooming in her gaze, and his chest is aching. Splintering.

 _Revas_ , he reminds himself. _She is free,_ foolish wolf _, and it would be more than disrespectful to assume otherwise._

So he swallows his fear and touches her face.

“Ar lath ma, vhenan,” he tells her softly, and leaves before she can see the pain on his face.

~•~

They slowly ease into the relationship, seamlessly and without awkward pause.

Yet a week after he tells her she is his heart, she has still not returned to her habit of giving him embrium.

The part of him that misses the presence of the soothing plants, as well as her mischievous grin—although, she has certainly found other things to tease him about—is too confused to ask her why she has stopped. Another part of him worries that he has done something to hurt her Dalish sentimentalities, and that the lack of flowers is a result of his blundering.

He turns from where he is standing in front of his desk, and appraises her as she sprawls across his couch with three different documents and a book in her hands. Lavellan is so concentrated on her work that she doesn’t notice his gazing, or how his brow furrows as he watches her kick her legs up onto the chaise with the air of someone who has lived in the rotunda for half of their life.

Her eyes narrow at the scripts, mouth twitching downward, and he is amused at her subconscious expression. Their relationship is comfortable and steady, and their ability to coexist for long periods of time in a compact area is an indication of how _good_ they are together—they enjoy each other's company.

Or so _he_ thinks.

“You do not bring me flowers anymore, _vhenan_ ,” he blurts out, and feels faintly mortified. The only saving grace is that somehow, he has kept it from sounding like an accusation. He hesitates. “I hope I have not missed something significant.”

At the sound of his voice, directed at her, Lavellan looks up. And promptly blinks.

“Oh,” she says, sounding faintly surprised. “The embrium?”

At his nod, she puts her work down to look at him more closely.

“Solas. You still haven’t figured it out?” She didn’t give him a chance to answer, muttering to herself. “Of course you wouldn’t have. It’s a Dalish thing.”

He sighs, unable to stop the sound of faint irritation.

“You’re oozing disapproval at me, here,” Lavellan tells him, amused. “I’m sorry there’s something that even the Fade can't show you. But that’s how history works, _emma lath_. There are some things that only the present has.”

Solas snorts.

“Somehow, I do not believe that the Dalish have made any _immense_ contributions to the Elvhen language. As scattered and unfinished as their understanding of the subject is, any linguistic developments on their part would likely not even make an impression on themselves.”

“Yes,” Lavellan says dryly. “That must be it. I should never have expected you to be able to figure this out, because there wasn’t a memory in the Fade to walk up to you and _tell_ you the answer. I apologize.”

Solas frowns. Is she irritated? Before he can open his mouth and reply, Lavellan holds a hand up.

“No,” she says, waving his retort off, rising from her seat with her documents in hand. “I’m not mad. Definitely not. Slightly disappointed, but definitely not mad.”

When she leaves the room, it feels remarkably empty. And _Solas_ feels regretful.

~•~

At night, he draws her into a state of lucid dreaming, nervous that she may not appreciate how he bring her so deep into the Fade without her permission. He is fully prepared to send her into her normal state of dreaming if she asks, but he finds himself close to wringing his hands as she seamlessly enters his dreamscape.

“I appreciated the flowers very much,” he tells her quietly, watching her as she gazes, wonder on her face, across the meadow they stand in. The sky is clear and the ground is an expanse of lush grass and softly glowing _embrium_ —they are standing in a _field_ of the flower, and when Lavellan finishes whirling around with her eyes wide, he clasps his hands behind his back and waits for her to say something.

“This is _wonderful_ ,” she says, the amazement on her face turning to something sharper and focused on _him_ —Lavellan looks at him, he realizes, something thumping uncomfortably in his chest, with _unrestrained affection_.

“I am glad that you like it,” he says, words failing him for a moment. There is a pause. “I… You used it as a name. A title. Am I correct in assuming that it is an endearment?”

She steps forward, reaches for his face, and gives him a three-second window to back away before she kisses him. His arms instinctively go to her back.

It is gentle and lingering, ending with her nipping his lips lightly enough for him to want to pull her right back to him.

“Keeping going,” Lavellan tells him, drawing back and slipping her hands loosely around his waist. She tilts her head back to look at him, smiling, and his breath catches.

“Embrium is very pretty,” he murmurs, leaning forward and touching her forehead with his. “Are you trying to tell me something, _vhenan_ ? Because if it means what I believe it may, I would rather use it myself to describe _you_.”

She gives a huff of laughter. “Sweet talker. But although I _do_ find you very beautiful, _fenor_ , that’s not exactly what it means.”

She tilts her head forward, nose following the line of his jaw down to his neck. Her breath hits his skin, warm enough to turn the tips of his ears pink.

“Do you,” his voice falters when she slides her hands up to the back of his neck, fingertips pressing at the base of his skull gently and scraping his skin. “ _Ah_ , do you plan on ever… telling me?”

“Perhaps,” she murmurs, lips touching the curve of his throat. “Although, I think I’ll give you one more chance to guess. Use it wisely.”

When she draws back, smirking, his entire face feels warms. But before he can draw her mouth to his in response, something tugs at the dreamscape.

“Duty calls, _gaildahlas_ ,” she tells him, eyes alight with self-satisfaction, and steps back.

The meadow ripples, and when he blinks, she is no longer in front of him.

He sleeps longer than he means to, taking the time in the Fade to regain his composure. Waking is slow and his movements are lethargic, back bent uncomfortably from where he has fallen asleep at his desk. When he lifts his head from his arms, blinking back sleep, his eyes catch on a glint of soft red.

There is a bouquet of embrium on his desk.

~•~

Halamshiral has the entire fortress in disarray, after that. For a while, it seems as if Lavellan has run completely out of quiet moments.

According to Dorian, she’s confined herself to the instruction of both Vivienne and Josephine. Solas hears her tutoring sessions in the library from where he sits below, the soft murmurs of Orlesian greetings echoing off the walls of the rotunda.

A Dalish elf learns the history of Orlais and studies the political conflicts that currently mire the country, practices her nobility manners, and learns parts of a third language. There is no longer time for her to stop by and spend time with him.

And yet somehow, she makes it work. Lavellan skirts between visiting emissaries to place newly acquired tomes upon his desk, drops off cups of honey-sweetened hot milk on her way up from the kitchens, and presses quick kisses to his cheek or shoulder before making her way up to the library.

Despite all the time she has lost, she finds some for him.

A month and a half before the ball at the Winter Palace, Lavellan has already planned the Inquisition’s debut in the world of Orlesian politics.

She strides into the rotunda with purpose that tells him there is work to do.

“We’re leaving for the Exalted Plains tomorrow,” she tells him, and he can see in her gaze that she’s already preoccupied with a myriad of other thoughts involving their journey. Which technically has yet to begin. “The War of the Lions has temporarily been halted. If we establish a presence in the area and do some meddling with the undead, we won’t have to worry about convincing Orlais that we’re important.”

“I will be there,” he promises, and she murmurs her gratitude before moving to climb up the stairs to the library.

~•~

On their way to the Dales, Lavellan somehow finds a patch of embrium and manages to tuck the flowers into his pack without stopping the rest of the party. He sighs, pointedly, but she just winks at him before moving to lead again.

The Dalish clan they meet offers them a place to stay the night, warm and receptive to the vallaslin—he has to bite his tongue, a bitter taste in his mouth—as well willing to even give the _shemlen_ a place to stay.

This particular group of Dalish is wary, but far more open-minded to the company Lavellan keeps than most would be. More than a few eyes catch on his bare face, and some children gawk openly, but the adults are respectful to the Inquisitor’s companions and do not remark upon the fact that a flat-ear travels with her.

Loranil, the eager one, fresh-faced and in—understable, Solas thinks dryly—awe of Lavellan, finds him the most fascinating. Newly conscripted, he does not care about a bare face or lack of clan. It is a refreshing experience.

He scoots over to Solas at night, while they are all clustered around the fire with the aravels and halla around them, and unleashes a torrent of questions about the Inquisition.

Lavellan is busy talking to Hawen and the rest of the clan elders, gathering as much information as she can on the state of the Plains. Loranil practically vibrates with excitement when Solas tells him, vaguely, the reason behind their deployment of forces in the area.

“Amazing,” he breathes, green eyes wide. “Everyone else in the clan believes that it’s a waste of time to get involved with _shemlen_ affairs. But maybe, now that they’ve met the _Inquisitor_ —they’ll understand why we should also take action.”

“Lavellan does her duty because she is the only one who can,” Solas corrects him gently. “Action is not always the proper course. She has shown me, as well, that the Dalish cannot always afford to take part in human affairs.”

Loranil deflates visibly, but Solas does not regret his words. Months before meeting Lavellan, he might have agreed that the Dalish were far too closed off for their own good. But her clan, friendly and much more open to humans than most, had a month ago only narrowly avoided being massacred.

He was slowly beginning to realize that the Dalish often had less of a choice in many matters than he believed them to.

The moment does not keep Loranil down for long, however, and the elf almost immediately perks up again when his gaze catches on something in his pack. Solas notices the change in focus, moving to glance at his bag.

“Something wrong?” Solas asks, curious, as the young elf’s eyes widen.

“Is that _embrium_?” Loranil wonders, fingers twitching as if he’s trying not to reach for the flowers himself. Taking pity on him, Solas reaches for his pack and tugs the stems out himself. He lets Loranil take them, the hunter’s hands uncharacteristically gentle.

“A familiar sight, I take it? They do not seem to grow here.”

“We… haven’t seen them in a very long time,” Loranil admits, stroking the petals and… inhaling their scent. “We used them to calm the halla and cheer up the _da’len_ , since they’re usually common.”

His tone is wistful. The sympathy that wells up in Solas is not unexpected—he can relate. How many things from his past will he never see, nor smell, ever again? It was always the most common things that one missed in the future. Things that were once a comfort, and thus taken for granted.

He watches the young elf cup the flower in his hands with more than a little nostalgia, before it occurs to him that the answer to his problem is sitting right across from him.

Holding said problem in their hands.

Solas almost drags his palm down his face. Who better to tell him the alternative meaning of the flower than someone _Dalish_?

“Loranil,” he says, catching the young elf’s attention once more. “I am aware that your people refer to this plant by its Elvhen name— _gaildahlas_. Is there another meaning to the word?”

Loranil perks up immediately, surprise blooming across his face. “Why do you ask?”

Solas hesitates. Lavellan had never seemed reluctant to let others know that they were involved, but things could be different with the Dalish. Their opinion of her could be tarnished by the knowledge that she was involved with someone they considered a _shemlen_ , but—he pauses, looking over at her.

She is not the kind of person who would disrespect him by giving in to the prejudices of others in order to save her own positions. Lavellan is the kind of person, he knows, who would not mislead the clan by making them believe that she held the same disregard for _flat-ears_ that most Dalish did. She would negotiate with them regardless, and on her own terms.

“The Inquisitor has taken to— _gifting_ me bundles of the flower. Yet I am under the impression that the name of the plant, itself, can be used to mean something else.”

“She… gives you _gaildahlas_?” Loranial drops the flower and looks at him with no little amount of amazement, eyes almost comically wide. “And she… uses it to address you?”

Solas looks back steadily, more than a bit confused at the elf’s reaction. “Yes?”

To his surprise, a knowing, toothy grin spreads across Loranil's face.

“Well,” he drawls, eyes shifting to something behind Solas. “I… did not expect my leader to be so admirably… _smooth_.”

“Pardon?” Solas says, a bit irritated at the lack of explanation. Loranil's smile only widens.

“ _Hahren_. Gaildahlas is usually a word we use for the flowers, but…” his voice trailed off for a moment, eyes glinting in amusement. “Amongst everyone but the elders, it’s also a term used by _lovers_. In Common, it would mean…”

“ _Sweetie_ ,” a voice purrs from behind him, hot breath brushing his neck, and Solas stiffens in surprise. “And sometimes, it serves as a more _playful_ way of addressing a lover.”

Realization has him flushing from the tips of his ears down to his neck, face feeling noticeably warmer in the cool air of the Plains. Solas faintly registers Loranil leaving them, soft laughter echoing in his wake, as he turns to face Lavellan.

“I… Inquisitor,” he says, trying, unsuccessfully, to suppress his embarrassment. “It seems your secret is out.”

“ _Actually_ ,” she murmurs into his ear, dropping down behind him to lean against his back and slip her arms under his. “You cheated. Although asking Loranil for help is marginally better than asking a spirit.”

“Only, _ah_ , marginally better?” he asks, stifling a sigh when she presses a warm kiss against his neck. He tries to turn to face her fully, but she pats the front of his sweater comfortingly—he snorts at the strange sensation—before moving to kiss the underside of his jaw, next. This time, Solas can’t stop the sigh that escapes him.

He gives in to her attentions. Lavellan shifts their positions so that he is leaning back against her, tilting his head back on her shoulder. Because of his height, Solas is forced to slide down a bit so that he’s practically reclining in her arms. They’re at the edge of the fire—they aren’t hiding, per se, but she’s managed to give them a semblance of privacy that she knows he would appreciate.

It is a strange position. Usually, she leans back against his chest while _he_ holds _her_. But Solas has come to realize that Lavellan is anything but conventional in her displays of affection.

Anyone interested in what they are doing would have to stand at least five feet away and squint through the barely-illuminated darkness. And at the moment, Solas can see everyone else gathered closer to the flames, conversing with one another. Vivienne is sitting quietly with Cassandra, a tome open in her lap, as she somehow manages to make the ground look like a regal seat.

The _Seeker_ is... flustered, and seems to have caught the attention of _many_ young hunters.

Lavellan catches his attention again, nudging his calf with one of the legs lying outside his. If he is somewhat heavy, she doesn’t complain, her grip on him steady and her support unyielding. She’s missing the heavier parts of her armor, although the chainmail below clinks against his back. It should be slightly uncomfortable—but Solas… does not mind.

“I doubt a spirit would have been able to figure it out, either,” she says, breath washing across the side of his neck again. He almost shivers at the sensation, the tips of his ears heating once again. “From what I’ve seen, the term is a recent addition to our language. I just think it’s amazing how we’ve managed to all incorporate it into our speech, as scattered as we are. Not bad for children clinging to lost lore, huh?”

When she nudges his hip, he gives a huff.

“Slang endearments are not exactly the epitome of cultural development,” he mutters. “But I admit that there are… certain benefits to such additions.”

She hums against his skin, a delighted noise. “A fan of the term, then, gaildahlas?”

He swallows, warmth blooming in his chest from the endearment. “Perhaps.”

She laughs, then, no doubt noticing his light flush despite the cover of dark. As well as his fervent prayer. _She has enough leverage over me as it is._

“When you gave me the flowers the first time—was it your way of… announcing your intentions?” he asks, suddenly curious. She snorted.

“A bit more than that. In my clan, it was an unofficial way of saying that you were trying to court someone. Even though I knew you weren’t familiar with most modern Dalish customs, I thought you’d be able to at _least_ figure out that I was hitting on you.”

“I…” Unsurprisingly, his words fail him. Solas almost snorts. He can't imagine the faces the company of his youth would make if they heard her.

“So your plan did not go the way you hoped it would,” he says after a moment.

“Well,” she hesitates. “I… was happy that you took them, at least. And it convinced me to take a more forward route in _pursuing_ you, although I didn’t want to pressure you unknowingly. Courting you was enjoyable. And getting to call you gaildahlas was _also_ very enjoyable.” The fondness in her tone, undeniable and potent, has his chest aching.

“Thank you,” he murmurs to her, tightening his hands around hers. “That means a lot to me.”

He doesn’t know how else to express his gratitude. Solas knows what kind of figure he was to the Inquisition in its fledgling stages—mysterious, aloof, and apparently, vaguely condescending. That Lavellan took the time to figure him out and find parts of him to love—

It is more than he ever could have hoped for.

In the comfortable silence that follows his words, Lavellan leans forward, again, and tucks her face loosely into the crook of his neck. She is a warm weight behind him, fingers linked with his. She’s tired, he can tell—they spent the entire day torching the undead and completing tasks for the Keeper, but it was Lavellan who slipped out of her boots, for the first time since joining the Inquisition, to chase Hanal’ghilan back to the herd.

They stay like that for a while. _Dirthavaren_ is quiet, save for the murmurs of the clan and the noises of the halla. Solas runs his fingers soothingly along the backs of her hands, wide awake despite the comfort of her presence.

 _Vhenan’ara_. Lavellan is his heart’s _journey_ —she is an aspect of this nightmarish future that he _cannot_ find in the past, no matter how many spirits he consults or memories he visits.

Solas closes his eyes, heart aching, and listens to her steady breaths and beating heart.

 _Suledin_.

**Author's Note:**

> IT'S OVER! i live. it took me many days to type this. third fic ive ever written and BY FAR the longest... but worth it tbh.
> 
> please leave kudos and comments! constructive comments, i.e. about characterization, awkward phrasings, etc! i Want To Grow and accept Any Criticisms (^:
> 
> UPDATE 8/1/16: fixed those weird spacings and made some sentences less awkward, i hope.
> 
>  **Glossary:**  
>  _fenor_ : Precious. Similar to the english endearment: Dear, or beloved. (fenxshiral)  
>  _vhenan'ara_ : Heart’s desire. Lit. journey of the heart (also fenxshiral. do u see a pattern)  
>  _falon_ : friend, guide; true friends (fenxshiral... a blessing upon the fandom)  
>  _ir abelas_ : expresses sorrow, pretty much "i'm sorry"  
>  _vhenan_ : (my) heart  
>  _sathan_ : please


End file.
